


What Happens At The Crossroads...

by HarmoniaChimera



Category: Original Work
Genre: Afterlife, Demons, Gen, Moral Dilemmas, Moral Lessons, POV First Person, Pagan Gods, Philosophy, Suicide, life and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25606801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmoniaChimera/pseuds/HarmoniaChimera
Summary: Your happiness is an impediment to seeing someone else’s pain.Think about it. Empirically, when you’re full of joy, you are less likely to notice that someone else is hurting. Instead, you’re more prone to making assumptions that they’re just “having a bad day” or maybe feeling “a bit under the weather”.And make no mistake, I didn’t just randomly slip and fall into your feed to implant the sentiment in your blood stream and slither away unheard and unseen. Oh, you’re gonna fucking see and hear me now, no doubt about it.
Kudos: 1





	What Happens At The Crossroads...

Your happiness is an impediment to seeing someone else’s pain.

Think about it. Empirically, when you’re full of joy, you are less likely to notice that someone else is hurting. Instead, you’re more prone to making assumptions that they’re just “having a bad day” or maybe feeling “a bit under the weather”.

And make no mistake, I didn’t just randomly slip and fall into your feed to implant the sentiment in your blood stream and slither away unheard and unseen. Oh, you’re gonna fucking see and hear me now, no doubt about it.

And while we’re at it, those thoughts didn’t boil up like a sore in my head either. I came into them just like I came _~~(back)~~_ into this world. I know what I’m talking about just a little too well.

I tried to commit suicide, you see. Yeah, yeah, I know, “Oh no! She said the S-word!” and all that. Calm your fucking titties. And by the way, if you think you can go through life comfortably wrapped up in a pall of the so-called ‘P.C.’ that will magically block out all of the ugly, godforsaken, hard truths of this world, well, that ain’t gonna happen and good fucking luck to you, sir. Safe travels, I guess.

I don’t know why I called you a ‘sir’ right there. Sorry about that, slip of the tongue. Guess I just got too used to men being the ones who use a twisted version of ‘political correctness’ like a back-handed slap to the face every time you try to have a serious conversation with them, just to sow discord and keep you from getting to your point. And yes, I am a woman. _~~(Or used to be.)~~_ In fact, if you put together all the things that labelled me as human—age, sex, gender, birthplace, profession, et cetera—you’d have someone who was plucked straight from the top of all the “high risk of suicide” lists. The Holy Grail of own-life-takers.

Actually, when you think about it, I don’t get why everybody was so shocked when I did it. “Oh, no, she wouldn’t kill herself!” they say, _staring at your lifeless body_. That’s not how shit works, you can’t just will or pray it away. I swear, people see something they don’t like and they think that if they just _deny it hard enough_ , it’ll just magically go away.

Sound familiar? Good. It should.

But, none of that matters anymore. After you die, all of those little things that are supposed to make you human become so silly and irrelevant. Let me lay unto you some first-hand knowledge: nobody cares about money or gender studies or the teachings of Christ when they’re dead.

Yeah, you read that right. ‘Cause when I say “I tried to commit suicide”, I mean that’s the official version. That’s what it says in my file: attempted suicide at X, in Y, insert scan of the suicide note. They call it an attempt because I came back. Obvious. But they’re wrong. I actually succeeded, at first. I legit died. Or, I guess, whatever the tangent of ‘die’ is. But that’s getting into quantum physics and we’re not gonna do that.

And yes, that means I was to the other side. Whoo-hoo! Lucky me. Let me tell ya, it was _ugly_ over there. _So_ disgusting. I mean, at least you get a choice, which is more than what can be said about most of the ‘earthly delights’, but still: fucking abhorrent. Dark grey, wintry fields of death as far as eye can see. You’re standing on this black dirt road, and if you so much as take a step, this huge crossroad suddenly materialises in front of you, and you have _all_ of the choices. Whatever you want, it’s yours. There’s the sweet, sweet Oblivion, like a glittering, crystal-blue sea that will just swallow you and cradle you into nothingness; there’s the pearly gates to the Heaven, guarded by a very, very bored-looking angel; there’s a bunch of cute little girls urging you to join them, a couple of djinns who I suppose must’ve gotten reassigned a few millennia ago, a demon or four, and even a shiny and beautiful, albeit old lady with a kind, grandmotherly smile, who offers to help you make your choice. And you can go wherever the fuck you want… except, of course, back.

(And before you ask, yes, I told _everyone_ who would listen about this. So if you don’t see any of it on the Internet or in any of the holy books, well, I guess they didn’t like my version.)

So here comes the funny bit, right? When you kill yourself, you don’t expect to regret your decision. Like, the people who had _never_ been suicidal will tell you “If you do this, you will regret it!” along with a few bits about Hell and damnation, but I mean, who would believe them? You just expect to be fucking dead. But then you’re standing there in the literal Fields of Death™ and you’re like, “Wait a second, this is totally not what I signed up for.” And then they expect you to make a _choice_? I’m sorry, was the one I just made not hard enough, can’t we just leave it at that?

So, understandably, you have a little bit of a mental breakdown. Again. You wanted it all to be over, so why is there more? Why is there always more? The old lady holds you while you cry, her face completely blank and otherworldly. Even a demon puts a hand on your shoulder like it’s not something that happens with every single soul who comes through. But hey, you kinda get it. Life is shit, so why should death be any different? Where did this whole dichotomy between life and death even come from? It’s all one huge cycle, isn’t it? There’s no escape, there’s no saviour at the door, there’s just crappy life and then crappy _after_ life. End of story.

And you know what? Paradoxically, once it reaches you, like fully reaches you, you do kind of feel a wave of relief. That’s just how it is. Nothing matters in the grand scheme of life. There’s no good or evil, there’s no great dichotomy, it all just kind of… is. And you just are. You don’t matter. And what you do with yourself doesn’t really matter either. Everything you were taught to believe, everything that’s been programmed into you, it’s all just temporary glitch in the great collective subconscious of the world. It fluctuates like quicksand, and just like quicksand, it pulls you in until you feel there is no escape other than to _die_ … but you know what? It doesn’t. Fucking. Matter.

You don’t fucking matter.

You only matter to those you leave behind. You only matter through the legacy you leave behind, if you’re lucky or smart or quick enough to make one, and even then you only matter for as long as humanity will deem you worthy of their attention. Only for as long as it takes to bury you and your achievements in the tiny-fonted footnotes of history books that nobody will ever read because anyone who ever went to high school or college knows history class is for sleeping, not reading. And they’re all probably better off for it because history is rigged and nothing really matters.

How’s that for a lesson?

Well, I’m sorry, I got a little bit nihilistic there myself. I apologize. I guess a trip to the afterlife will do that to you. Point is, I don’t actually believe all that myself. Again, empirically, it’s all pretty subjective. You may be but a tiny irrelevant grain of sand in the Great Hourglass of Life that will inevitably get turned around when you reach the bottom—and you can always believe that, at least—but at a much smaller scale, you do matter. You matter to the people around you, and most of all, you matter to yourself. It’s your life. Don’t let it be dictated by other people’s constructs, other people’s beliefs, other people’s empty words. Hell, don’t even listen to me if it doesn’t flow your boat. You’re the captain of it. And maybe you lost your astrolabe and you have no fucking clue where you’re going, but who cares? You’ve got your boat, you’ve got your life, you’ve got the gentle sway of the waves and all the time you need to figure it out. So enjoy your journey and maybe sometimes tip a glass for those of us who aren’t so lucky anymore.

Now, I know the last, most pressing question you probably have is: Could what happened to me have been avoided? That always seems to be the central question of any ‘debate’ about suicide, if there is even anything to debate. I suppose it could, in a way. I don’t really remember much of what led up to it but I do remember having people around me, people who looked at me for weeks and weeks, and yet somehow never _saw_ me. People who listened but never _heard_. For me, there was this massive canyon between me and everybody else, a canyon of joy, ‘cause they always seemed so carefree and happy, always with a smile on their face, while I sat with them, gave a half-hearted wry chuckle or nodded along, and yet every gesture, every attempt at communication, just seemed to isolate me further.

It was like I was watching my life in the rearview mirror, or like a replay from a hidden camera, and it made me _so_ angry. All I wanted was to be in control, but it was like I was always one step behind. My life was derailing off the cliff over and over and I was always a minute too late. And there was this ancient rage rising inside me, rage at the world, at my friends and family who couldn’t fucking notice anything was wrong, or worse—noticed but never did anything. So. Much. Rage.

But I kept it locked away, like a good girl. I kept quiet because I believed the people who knew me best… I mean, of course they’d notice a change, right? They’d notice the scars, the marks, the way the world lost all its colour, how I spoke differently, how I dressed differently. They’d ask! And not just, “Are you okay?” because hey, I’m still walking and breathing so clearly I am okay! Why can’t they ask the real questions? Why can’t they ask about the things that really fucking matter?

How about, have you felt the pull of the void?

Has the abyss been threatening to swallow you whole?

And has that felt like a really good fucking idea at the time?

If you answered ‘yes’ to any of the above questions, you should probably stay away from heights and sharp things and seek professional help.

But see, I thought I was. I thought I was seeking help but people were just too blind and deaf and uncaring to notice. But I was wrong. Everybody who ignored my silent pleas and failed to see my struggle did so for their own reasons. They weren’t trained for this. They weren’t well-versed in the way of the Black Heart, they didn’t read that comprehensive book with best-selling international sales: “How to Notice Someone’s Suicidal and What Can You Really Do About It?”. They were just normal people with their own lives that don’t fucking revolve around you, with their own baggage and histories marked by a whole host of other people with _their_ own baggage and histories, and when it boils down to it, they all had the fundamental right to be blind and deaf and stupid.

In a way, everything that led to this point was really a stone in the path that had been paved years or even centuries ago by souls who had not walked this world in ages and who had no clue how they affected the people they left behind, or what legacy they were leaving behind.

So could it really have been avoided?

…Yes. Because _I_ could have made different choices. _I_ could have stepped up. _I_ could have, and should have, recognised that I wasn’t getting anywhere alone, that I was only getting worse, and that I needed some fucking help. I should have let that ancient rage flow through me and let it finally come loose, make my walls and programming collapse like a dam and finally allow my soul to spill forth and split me open.

Would that change anything? Maybe. Maybe not. I will never know now, will I?

But hey, in the end, I got to break all the ancient rules and jump the gate, so to speak. I got to scream and kick and beg and realize my mistake and fight tooth and nail to rectify it. Even if it cost me literally everything that made me me. Even if now I have to build a new me from whatever wasn’t interesting enough before. Other bastards might not get that chance. _You_ might not get that chance.

Well, I guess the moral of the story is: People are fucking stupid. And if you need help, you need to scream it in their fucking faces. _~~(Or paint it in blood on the pavement.)~~_ Or meet a surprisingly nice crossroads demon _~~(Aww, thank you!)~~_ and sacrifice your soul for another chance at being slightly less stupid yourself.

The choice, as always, is yours.


End file.
